


Friends or Foes

by MerKat



Series: MerKat RPs [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jim, Bullying, Come Swallowing, Fighting, First Kiss, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, Pining John, Reichenbach Feels, Reunions, Roommates, Teenlock, Top Sebastian, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerKat/pseuds/MerKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amazing how fights expose one’s priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends or Foes

When Sherlock opened the door to the room he shared with John, it was only two months of practise that stopped him from freezing at the sight he was met with: his roommate in the process of stripping out of his uniform to change into his rugby kit. And somehow, no matter how Sherlock timed it, he always seemed to walk in as John was bending in half, his naked arse in the air and pants and trousers being pulled from the floor. In the beginning, he'd believed that it was on purpose, a trick, but he'd observed and deduced, and it was nothing more than coincidence. Especially with the way the other teenager seemed to only date girls from the nearby town, despite the offers Sherlock himself had seen offered from their own schoolmates. Despite not caring one way or the other, he found himself glad that he never had to bear witness to others fawning over his attractive roommate. He shut the door behind him and, without a word, flung himself onto his bed.

John eyed his roommate as he finished dressing. Sherlock _always_ had just the right timing. He was glad Sherlock had tossed an arm over his eyes, so he couldn't see the way John's eyes roamed him for a moment before he could pull his gaze away. _Get it together, Watson._ The last thing he needed was to get caught in a compromising position with his gorgeous roommate and get kicked out halfway to graduation. Though from the rumors he'd heard, no one had stayed Sherlock's roommate this long.

Grabbing his bag, he stepped into the common room. Jim was stretched out on the couch with his feet in Seb's lap. John tried to hurry past them.

"Still chasing after things too far out of your league, Watson?" Jim commented lightly, Seb's hand warm against his ankle. His body was still comfortably blissed out from the thorough fucking he'd received shortly before he'd heard Sherlock arrive. Silly boy was so obvious, always a brief pause when he opened his door. And then John Watson emerged minutes later, kitted out for his sports practice. Watson, the only person who had remained with Sherlock for longer than twenty-nine days. A record and still going. That, even if Jim ignored the way the other boy's eyes frequently lingered on Sherlock, spoke volumes.

"At least I'm not sleeping my way through passing my classes," John shot back as he crossed to the door.

Out in the common room, Sherlock could hear Moriarty baiting John before the door slammed. John never slammed the door. Not unless he was angry. Over their time together, Sherlock had learned very few things truly upset John: someone insulting Sherlock's genius, or Sherlock at all; and anyone insulting John's abilities. And while the other two boarders with whom they shared their common room with never insulted or looked down on what Sherlock could do, they made up for it by insulting John's abilities. As much as Sherlock wanted to protect his friend from the harsh views of Moriarty and Moran, Moriarty's intelligence was on par with his own, and he had yet to determine how he could stop the small teenager from insulting John without letting on that John was a weakness of his. Because no matter that he couldn't determine what John meant to him, he could at least recognise that he was a weakness.

John took out his frustration on rugby practice. At least his teammates didn't care if he was on scholarship as long as he kept playing well. If any of them noticed more aggression than usual, they didn't say anything.

Finally, he returned to the dorm. There was no sign of anyone else after he got out of the shower, so he took his books into the common room to study.

The case (a missing gradebook) had been so incredibly dull (a three) that it had done nothing to slow the frantic energy of his mind, and it left Sherlock frustrated and annoyed. The common room door slammed shut behind him and the heads of all three occupants snapped up. Moriarty was laid over Moran's lap, grinning wickedly, and blank-faced Moran's legs were stretched out onto the table John had been using to study. The teenager's heel was digging into the cover of a book that John was more than politely attempting to get back, and the sight caused his annoyance to swell and deepen into something he wasn't quite sure was annoyance any more. In this state, he could typically make himself feel better by pouring his abilities into deducing someone to tears. In this room, however, were the only people in the school that would remain unaffected: Moriarty would just say 'What else?', Moran was a dog too well trained by its master to even change facial expressions, and John would look up at him with that bright look of awe that did strange things to Sherlock's chest and stomach. So instead, he walked over to Moran's outstretched leg, reached down to dig his fingers into the proper pressure points on the other male's knee, and when the leg automatically jolted backwards at his touch, shoved everything within Moran's range back to John.

John gathered his things up, glared at Moriarty and Moran and retreated back to his room. Sherlock followed him a few minutes later, pacing that way he did when he was bored. If something was actually on his mind, _then_ he’d be still. John had just got his books back out on his desk when they heard Moriarty and Moran start to go at it in the other room. John rolled his eyes. “Those two are worse than dogs in heat,” he muttered. “Thank you,” he said to Sherlock.

"Hm?" Sherlock replied distractedly. "Oh. Tedious. You're impossible to live with when you haven't studied, or when you've gotten an exam back on which you believe you could have received a better grade had you studied more." He stopped pacing only to drop onto his bed, grabbing his hair. "I will simply die without something for my brain to work on!" he declared loud enough to drown out the sounds of Moriarty and Moran next door.

John blushed and turned to his work. “Well I _have_ to pass,” he muttered. He turned a page just as a loud moan carried from the other room. He rolled his eyes. “Want to take a walk until those two fall asleep?”

Sherlock blinked as his mind caught a thought. "Does it bother you?"

“Does what bother me?” John started stacking his books.

"Two males engaging in intercourse?" Despite the high number of relationships present in their all-male school, John only appeared interested in the teenage girls of the nearby town. Sherlock himself had never entertained the thought of intercourse between himself and another, and yet... Somehow, John was always there to encite or encourage thoughts Sherlock had never entertained, or wanted to entertain.

“No, why would it bother me?” _Dangerous waters there, Watson._ The last thing he needed was to show his hand to his far too observant roommate. “It’s just those two. So, want to take that walk?”

Sherlock cocked at his head at his roommate, pondering. John had technically answered the question, but it hadn't led to revealing answers as to whether or not John would mind being in a relationship with another man. He frowned suddenly, unsure why he cared enough to have that thought, and stood suddenly, gathering his coat, scarf, and gloves. "Let's go, John."

Seb stilled Jim with his hands on his hips as the common room door closed behind Holmes and Watson. The smaller man was riding him and his cock flexed at the sensation of being fully buried inside of his arse. “You’re right, they left.”

"Of course I'm right, Tiger," Jim purred, rolling his hips against the hold on them. "Poor Sherly and his pet are always so easy to manipulate." So was his Tiger, but as he was only susceptible to Jim, it was a passable offense. "And speaking of Sherly's pet, he really does need to be put down soon. He's getting in my way." He rolled his hips again, grinning when he found his prostate and Seb groaned, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. His Tiger was wild and uncontrollable by anyone except Jim, but get him into bed and into Jim, and he was nothing more than an attention-seeking kitten.

Groaning, Seb grabbed Jim and rolled them over, thrusting hard into him. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

**.oOo.**

When Sherlock awoke, he did nothing more that open his eyes and blink blearily at the wall his bed was pressed against. After long minutes, his brain coming online like a seven year old laptop booting up, he rolled onto his back, and then a moment later, onto his other side. Across from him, John was still sleeping, the shape of his sheets denoting absolute lack of movement throughout the night, and Sherlock found himself watching the lax face, eyes tracing wrinkles already beginning at the corners of those eyes, the fan of golden lashes lain across the tanned skin. Last night, on their walk, they hadn't spoken much, but somehow, Sherlock had felt his mind ease, just at being near John, being in his accepting presence. It was unlike anyone else, and it frustrated him that he didn't understand what any of it meant. Perhaps he should treat John as a case: it would calm his mind and give him answers simultaneously.

By the time John woke up, Sherlock was gone. He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He should just give up. No matter how many girls he dated his mind always went back to his infuriating roommate. Sighing again he got to his feet and collected his books, getting ready for his day.

He didn’t expect to be in a fight by dinnertime.

John froze as he heard a few students mocking Sherlock. He should walk away. Ignore it. But he couldn’t. He spun on his heel and stalked towards the boys. “What did you say?”

"Oh, Watson!" Clayton Moulton called out boisterously. "I didn't see you there!" His friends snickered with him, a short-joke well made and subtly slipped into the thorough ragging they were giving the rugby player's mad roommate. "We were just talking about that fairy boyfriend of yours. He looks like one. Probably fucks like one too. That poof can probably use those freaky powers of his to figure out exactly how I like my cock suc--"

John swung without even thinking about it, catching Clay off guard. He stumbled back, but then it was on. John gave it all he could, but when one of Clayton’s cronies grabbed his arm, the bigger boy threw his weight on it and he could swear he heard the bone _crack_ and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back.

"Get 'im, lads!" Clay shouted, sending a vicious kick to the smaller teen's ribs as his friends converged on the figure laid on the floor. Surprising little shit. Trying to break his nose just to protect some faggot like Holmes. Disgraceful. Clay sneered and bent to deliver a punch to the gut when a voice rang through the hallway.

"What is going on here?"

"Shit! Matron Hudson!" Without another thought for the boy on the floor, Clay and his friends bolted, nearly trampling the smaller form in their haste to get away

John could only groan and grab his arm as she moved to his side. He tried not to cry in pain as they moved him and before too long he was lying in the infirmary, staring up at the ceiling, loopy from painkillers and wondering what the x-rays would say about his arm. If it was broken, he was done with rugby for the season. And depending on the break it might put his medical dreams off too.

It was late when Sherlock waltzed into the common room, ignoring Moriarty and Moran as he swept through into the room he shared with John, only to stop short at the unexpected and quite noticeable absence of his blond-haired friend. He turned on his heel and swept right back into the common room, glaring. "Where is he?" he snapped.

"Losing your pets, Sherlock?" Jim replied with a secretive smile. "Perhaps you should get it tagged."

Ignoring the barb, he returned to the hallway, mind racing as he strode purposefully through the hallways. He was trying to deduce where John may have ended up, especially as he always told Sherlock ahead of time if he had plans, when he realised an unusual amount of peers were avoiding his eyes. Typically they stared, wide-eyed, but now, they were all sliding their eyes away, refusing to look at him. He stepped in front of the next one, coat collar raised in that imperious way his friend always made fun of and expression dark. "Where is he?"

**.oOo.**

John heard the door open. He’d had the news now. Broken. They’d just finished putting a cast on when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. The nurse patted his good shoulder and stepped out. John bit his lip and said nothing.

For long minutes, Sherlock could only stand in the doorway and stare. Logically, he knew it would heal and, with proper physical therapy, would eventually be 'good as new', but the sight of John laying in that bed made his heart do funny things in his chest. Finally, he moved forward, taking a tentative seat in the chair at the side of the bed. The bruises on John's skin told him everything that happened, except why. The one question that haunted him when it came to John Watson. "Why did you engage in a fight with Clayton Moulton?"

John sighed. He was tired of playing games. Tired of dancing around the subject. Reaching over with his good hand, he entwined his fingers in Sherlock’s. “Don’t you know?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to where warm, calloused fingers were laced with his own, the grip comforting and utterly alien. Words had never failed him so thoroughly in his life.

Looking up at him, John studied his face. “None of the girls ever meant anything. I...was just worried about getting kicked out. Now I guess I’ve sealed that anyway.”

That pulled him out of it. "No," he said firmly, standing to retrieve his phone. In seconds, he had dialed a long familiar and mostly-unused number as he walked out the room. "Mycroft..."

John wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Well, there was still state schools. Even with an expulsion on his record he should be able to find... something. Closing his eyes, John let himself start to drift off. If Sherlock came back, good. If not, well, at least he had his pride.

When he'd finally hung up on Mycroft and walked back into the infirmary, John was asleep. It wasn't until Sherlock had stepped up to his bedside that his mind finally settled on what John had said earlier. The way he'd looked at him and touched him. _"Don't you know?"_ The problem was, Sherlock didn't know. He didn't understand. He knew friends didn't look at each other the way they did. Likely didn't feel about each other the way they did, either. He just didn't know what it all meant.

Waking again, John found the nurse checking him over. Sherlock was gone and it was with a bit of a heavy heart that he headed back to their dorm room, arm in a sling. Mercifully the common room was empty, but as he stepped into the room he shared with Sherlock, he found the other boy thinking. Quietly, he slipped into his own bed.

When John had come in, he had expected... He wasn't actually sure what he had expected, but it wasn't John just going to bed. Was he too tired to talk? Well, that had never stopped Sherlock before. "I don't know, John."

John rolled onto his side, mindful of the arm. “What don’t you know?” He was still a little fuzzy from the drugs.

"Why you got in a fight with Moulton. Why you held my hand," Sherlock explained with a huff. He paused, not sure if he should share the next bit or if it was relevant. "Why my heart skipped when you touched my hand."

John stared at him. "I like you, Sherlock. _Like_ -like you. And I think maybe you like me too. Like I want to kiss those beautiful lips of yours." John blushed. There was more than that he wanted to do.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “That’s... oh.” John, apparently not pleased with this answer, sighed and rolled onto his back. For a long moment, Sherlock lay there unsure before he swung his legs silently over the edge and stood. Then he stood there for another long moment before striding across the room and stepping over John’s prone form, laying between the other boy and the wall. Blue eyes were wide, mouth parted in apparent shock as he leaned forward and pressed their lips together. When John did not respond, he pulled away, frowning. “Did I do it wrong?”

"No," said John, still blinking with shock. He looked at Sherlock, lying so close, lying _with_ him, and surged forward, kissing him with all the passion of months of _want_.

The molestation was entirely unexpected and completely welcome. Sherlock had seen plenty of kisses before in his life, deleted most all of them, and never understood any of them. But with John's mouth pressed against his and the warm body along his, his mind was being thrown into a previously unexperienced state of hyper-awareness, but only in regards to the teenager whose bed he was currently sharing. The rest of the room and beyond fell away to be replaced with John's hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, the taste of his tongue against Sherlock's, the hardness of the cast against his chest contrasting the relative softness of the hand on his other pectoral, the soft puffs of breath into his mouth. His eyes slid closed as he wrapped an arm around John's waist, slowly pulling the other flush to him.

John groaned softly. _This_....he’d imagined this, and never imagined it possible. He shifted his hips, rutting against Sherlock’s longer erection. He slid his good hand up into Sherlock’s curls, touching the soft hair like he’d wanted to. Experimentally he grabbed the hair and gave it a light tug.

A jolt of... _something_ shot through him at the touch and he surprised both of them with a loud moan and a slow roll of his hips. Before he realized what he was doing, Sherlock had rolled John onto his back, pressing his pelvis to the other boy's. The friction of their cocks was unlike anything he'd ever felt before and he ground down desperately, chasing the feeling just as tenaciously as he held their lips together, even though he could do nothing more to reciprocate the ongoing kiss except pant desperately into the hot cavern of John's mouth.

With another moan, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips. At this rate they were going to come in their trousers. John didn’t even care right now. His cast lay useless on the bedsheets, but his free hand was still in Sherlock's hair, alternately tugging and holding him place, needing this weight on top of him.

Masturbation was completely foreign to him as an activity, but he was not ignorant to its result. And that was, no doubt, the cause of the feeling crashing down his down his spine like a tidal wave. His hips were ceasely grinding now, his body separate from his mind in its pursuit for orgasm. _"Fuck. John,"_ Sherlock groaned as he pulled away from that mouth, dropping his forehead to the clothed shoulder as his lungs and heart attempted to claw out of his chest.

John let go of Sherlock's hair to reach down and thumb open his trousers, sliding a hand inside and gripping his cock, Hearing Sherlock swear again was worth it as he started stroking the taller teen off.

Sherlock attempted to return the favour, to take John's cock in his hand, but his fingers were shaking too hard to even undo the button. All it seemed he could do was grip the other boy, hold on tight, and pray he didn't fly away under the gale-force pleasure calloused fingers were wringing from him.

“You’re beautiful, and brilliant and amazing," whispered John, bringing Sherlock closer and closer, swiping his thumb over the slit to drag more precome down his shaft. Sherlock moaned against his shoulder, just holding on. John had the distinct feeling that his would-be lover had never done this sort of thing before. He twisted his wrist and then Sherlock was coming between them, shaking like a leaf.

The pleasure sizzling through his veins had reached a peak, turning his mind white as it spilled out of his cock and into John's hand. In the wake, his body tried to cast a net over the pieces of his mind spinning away and out of his control, unable to process what had just happened. Objectively, he _knew_ what had just occurred, that he had just experienced an orgasm, but his mind was overwhelmed, unable to connect the medical knowledge with the personal. John was still hard against his hip and, still dazed, Sherlock tried to reach for the erection, only to find his fingers incapable of anything more complex than a twitch. "Apologies," he murmured into the sweaty skin of the tanned neck.

John kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right.” He shifted to the side and freed himself. It wasn’t the hand he was used to using, but he was _so_ hard. He moaned and curled around Sherlock, just needing to find release. At least for once he didn’t have feel bad for imagining his gorgeous roommate. Sherlock was right here, filling his senses.

Sherlock could only stare in wonder as John wrapped fingers around a thick cock and began to stroke. He didn't bother to start out slow; his hand blurred as his body tensed beneath Sherlock's, and then John let out a strangled sound as he came, semen spilling into his fist as his hips continued to flex. When it was all over, he pulled his hand gingerly away, and went to smear his palm on the sheets when Sherlock snaked a hand out and wrapped it around the other boy's uninjured wrist, pulling it towards him. Curiously, his tongue peeked out, brushing against skin as he swiped up some of the liquid, parsing the taste

Staring, John watched as Sherlock lapped up the come from his hand. If he hadn’t just orgasmed moments before, he’d be hard all over again. That intense focus was only on him and it made his breath come short.

The taste was... interesting. Not wholly comparable to anything else, simply... musky. The texture was just as unusual, but he found himself unable to stop licking until John's hand was clean. His new curiosity, and an unfamiliar hunger, remained unsated, however and he found himself curling down the body below his where the softening cock was still smeared with come. Out came his tongue again, cleaning as gently as he was able. There was a choked groan when his tongue made contact with the hot flesh and he smiled, closing his eyes and inhaling deep, finding that musky scent stronger here than it had been in just the semen. Slowly, he cleaned around the base first before moving his to the flaccid flesh itself. Below his tongue, John's cock throbbed, and then throbbed again, slowly filling with blood. Suddenly, Sherlock found himself unable to stop, caught by the somewhat familiar desire to please John and the unfamiliar desire never stop licking, never stop tasting.

John’s hand was back in Sherlock’s hair. “That’s so good,” he whispered, then groaned as Sherlock licked up the shaft. Thank goodness he was seventeen or he’d never have got back up so quickly. “Take the whole thing in your mouth, just suck on it, gentle.”

Sherlock had always been criticised for not following directions well, but from the surprised, throaty moan John let loose when he sucked the hard cock into his mouth and into his throat instead, he doubted his friend--his boyfriend? his lover?--would mind. He had also never really found much of a use for his lack of a gag reflex, but its usefulness now was invaluable. It was a bit of a trial, at first, getting down the timing of bobbing his head over the spit-slick shaft and breathing through his nose, but Sherlock had always been a quick learner, and in no time, he was pleasuring John as if he'd never done anything else. He was so caught up in the act, he didn't realise he was hard again himself until his bedmate was rolling onto his side toward him, a hand on his waist tugging Sherlock just so before his cock was in a warm heat so intense and so unexpected that his rhythm broke with a high cry.

Moaning, John swallowed Sherlock down as far as he could go before he settled into a rhythm of his own. He was so close himself already, he suddenly pulled off Sherlock’s cock. “I’m gonna come,” he whispered.

"Me too," Sherlock paused to whisper. "Please, don't stop." He swallowed down John's erection, the hips against his face flexing and pushing the cock back into his throat as his own did the same. The orgasm this time, perhaps because it was the second in fairly quick succession, was not as desperate or as rushed or as explosive. It swept through his nerves like an easy swell, enticed by the gentle suction of John’s mouth.

John moaned softly, drinking all of it down before releasing the softening cock. Reaching down he ran his hand through Sherlock's hair again, loving the look of his cock in that mouth.

The pleasure in his body was so great, Sherlock couldn't bear to open his eyes. Instead, he licked and sucked and nipped the glans in his mouth until the testicles below drew up and semen was spilling into his mouth. It was a lot stranger to swallow all at once, but he worked his throat until it was gone. Afterwards, he continued to lap at the leaking slit until John was trembling and the other's cock was clean. Finally satisfied, Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to the tip and shifted so he could lay his cheek against the barely-exposed flesh of John's hip.

Sleepy and more than sated, John continued to stroke Sherlock's hair until he drifted off.

**.oOo.**

"They're in John's bed," Moran reported to Jim as the smaller man came into the room. "Just went at it. Twice."

“I know,” Jim replied, holding up his mobile. Still displayed on the screen was the review of the most recent photo he’d taken: Sherly and Watson quite clearly 69-ing one another. He’d gotten several other damning photos in the last hour, lingering in the doorway of their housemate’s room, quite blatantly in sight and yet completely ignored in favour of... other activities. Since he didn’t want Sherly to be expelled, he’d have to manipulate the images to remove any indications his prey was involved with the pet before he printed them out and presented them for either blackmail or evidence; he hadn’t quite decided yet. Seb was already laid out naked on his bed and Jim’s grin only widened as he stripped and climbed up to join the other.

Seb was stroking himself slowly. He watched Jim and removed his hand before he was told to, placing his hands by the headboard. He knew Jim wanted Sherlock for himself. It was fine, Jim was the only one to see him as more than a dumb brute, and for that he'd earned Seb's unswerving loyalty.

The burn from being pierced by that thick cock without preparation was nothing new but quite welcome, and Jim moaned as he sunk down until he could go no further. His Tiger was white-knuckling the headboard and Jim could only grin as he slowly began working his hips over the hot erection. There was no need to be loud now that Sherly and his pet had already consummated their relationship, something his louder sessions with Seb had been geared towards achieving since the beginning. It had taken weeks longer than he’d hoped, but he was patient, a spider on the outskirts of a web, simply awaiting all the pieces to fall into place.

Seb groaned softly, watching Jim as he used his body. Jim would no doubt use him up and discard him, but he'd enjoy the ride as long as he could. He held himself still as he could, waiting for Jim's orders. After all, his father had trained him how to take orders like a good little soldier since he could walk; Jim had just needed to pick up the reins.

Jim staved off his own orgasm for as long as he was able, simply enjoying the building sensations in his body. When he was ready, he rolled his hips, stimulating his own prostate with the head of Tiger’s cock as if it were nothing more than a glorified dildo. Which really, he was. His Tiger wasn’t that smart, but he knew enough to understand that Jim was just using him for whatever he would for the time, and would be trading him in for the newer, shinier model next door as soon as he could.

Seb moaned softly as Jim finally came, streaking his bare chest. "May I come, sir?" he asked softly, voice rumbling in his chest.

Jim ignored the other male's question in favour of drawing a finger through the mess he'd made on the fit abdomen below him. "If you're a good boy, and don't move while I sleep, I'll let you come when I wake up."

“Yes, boss.”

**.oOo.**

John was unsurprised to be called to the headmistress’s office the next day. He’d secretly packed while Sherlock was gone that morning, figuring he’d be escorted off the premises sooner rather then later. Setting his shoulders, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," Mycroft called, watching the door open to admit one John Watson. His brother's obsession stopped just inside of the door, blinking at the obviously startling sight of someone so thoroughly not Mrs Hudson sitting at her desk. "Tea?" he offered, pouring himself a cuppa and holding the spout poised just above the other cup, eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Yes, thank you,” said John. He stepped into the room, standing straight as he could and resisting the urge to adjust the sling. “I expected Matron Hudson, sir.”

"I would question your education had you not," Mycroft replied as he added tea and sugar. The boy's expression shuttered, all emotion wiping from his face at the question, correctly interpreting it as the slight it was. "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

“He’s my roommate, sir.”

"Oh? And is it typical to attack classmates for 'roommates'?" he asked. John had the decency to blush. "A roommate is not a sufficient reason to call someone like me for assistance."

“I don’t know who you are, sir,” said John, watching him carefully before fixing his eyes somewhere over the man’s shoulder.

"Oh, no one of import," Mycroft replied with a secretive sort of smile. It was the kind of expression he enjoyed to make, if for no other reason than it unsettled those who received. "All you need to know is that I have a great deal of interest in Sherlock Holmes, and therefore you." He paused to take a drink of tea, unable to stop the thought of Sherlock accusing him of being dramatic. "For example, why I must prevent your expulsion from this school.”

John shifted his gaze to meet his. “Why would you do that, sir? I took the first swing.”

Mycroft gave the teen a look out of the corner of his eye as he pulled out his little black book. “What an odd thing to do for someone on a full scholarship. Consistently top in your class, applications sent to the best universities, captain of your rugby team. How strange that you would throw that all away... for a simple brawl.”

“They were making fun of him,” said John shortly. “Have been, for a long time. I got tired of it.”

"Curious, that he has no care for the opinions of those who matter nothing to him," Mycroft murmured, taking a sip of his tea and looking over the rim of his cup at the boy. "I wonder what must have been said."

John's mouth moved to open when, without warning, the office door slammed open. John jumped as the door hit the wall, and it was only years and years of experiencing similar theatrics that kept Mycroft still. Sherlock stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed and expression stormy as he glared between the room's two occupants. "You're late," Mycroft said mildly; he had expected Sherlock to arrive a full three minutes prior.

John reached over and picked up his tea. “Afternoon, Sherlock,” he said as if he hadn’t just been discussing his imminent dismissal.

"If you're quite done interrogating my boyfriend--" Sherlock's keen eye was undeceived by Mycroft's rather poor attempts at disguising the way he nearly choked on his tea while John sputtered and coughed at his side "--we have experiments to conduct." He continued to glare at his older brother as he strode forward, wrapping his fingers around his boyfriend's uninjured wrist and pulling the obviously-stunned teen to his feet.

"Sexual experiments?" Mycroft finally gathered the words to tease.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, his annoyance nearly vanishing under the pride of how shocked Mycroft looked by his agreement. Nearly.

John barely managed to keep his feet as Sherlock hauled him out of the office. “Are you my boyfriend now?” he asked before they reached the hall. “Or were you just showing him up?”

"Both," Sherlock snapped in reply, pulling the teen in his grasp through the hall. He made it as far as it took for the halls to clear before he did an about face and shoved John into the wall, barely giving him time to suck in a surprised breath before he covered the other's lips with his own. It was nothing short of a claiming kiss, but he broke away before he was satisfied, feeling like he couldn't stop dragging his eyes over the body against his, assuring himself that Mycroft hadn't touched even a hair on John's head. "He wasn't supposed to come here. He wasn't supposed to see you at all."

"Who is he?" John was breathless.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, nowhere near sated. "My interfering brother." He didn't give John the chance before diving back in. It was strange, how little he cared for this type of thing before, and now he couldn't get enough. And it was only with John. He had spent the early hours of the morning, staring at the half-naked teenager in whose bed he lay, trying to imagine anyone else in John’s spot. He had been able to do so successfully, but it left him with a cold feeling in his chest that had difficulty fading, even after he’d let the imaginings fall away. Somehow, only John was able to fulfill something in him that he didn’t know needed fulfilling.

John cupped his face, seeing the bright need in his eyes. "Hey, I love you. We'll get through this. Even if I get kicked out."

“You’re not getting kicked out, John,” Sherlock said rolling his eyes. “That’s why Mycroft is he-- What?” His mind suddenly replayed all of what John had said and then went blank.

Smiling, John leaned up and kissed him again. "I love you, you git."

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, an echo of the night before when John had admitted he liked him. It never occurred to him that the other’s emotions for him may run deeper, and it left him feeling as if the floor below him had disappeared. He wasn’t sure if what he felt for John was love, but he wanted it to be, he wanted to put that word to the tangle of warmth and cold in his chest, the happiness that John would want him, wanted to keep him, and the paranoia that his ‘eccentricities’ would drive away the only person he’d ever wanted to remain at his side. He wanted to say this all aloud but he didn’t have the words, he didn’t know what words to use, so he closed his eyes and pressed their lips together, clinging almost desperately to his boyfriend’s blazer.

John ran his good hand down his boyfriend’s back. Just then, the bell rang and the hall filled with boys. Someone whistled.

Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped back, though he didn’t release the blazer in his fingers. “Come along, John.” He tried to keep his voice light, but he couldn’t keep the tremble of raw emotion out completely. “We have experiments to conduct.”

Leaning closer, John whispered in his ear. "When my arm heals, I'll have things to show you."

“I think there are plenty things we can accomplish with just three hands, I’m sure,” Sherlock replied, grinning slyly, now more eager than ever before to get back to their room.

John held his hand as they headed back, eager himself. However, he stopped and the smile slipped as they stepped into the common room to find Moriarty waiting for them.

"Evening, boys," Jim greeted, grinning at the barely-hidden, furious look on Watson's face and the blank one on Sherly's. "Doesn't this look like a regular celebration. I think it needs decorations though, don't you, Tiger?"

Sherlock watched the other dark-haired teen carefully, weighing his options. He had already several plans in his archives, subconscious recognitions that he always knew it would come down to it. From the first time he met a mind as brilliant as his own, its owner as mad as they were brilliant, he'd known they could never inhabit the same ecosystem without crashing headlong into one another. But in the same way he strove to get away, the same way Moriarty strove to close the distance, and it was only a matter of time until Jim realised how close Sherlock and John were getting. Until he decided to get rid of the competition.

"John, go get Mycroft."

John clenched his fist. He looked at Sherlock, then back at Jim. Sherlock gestured at him and he turned and walked out, hating the sinking feeling in his gut. But with a broken arm, there wasn’t much he could do against Seb. He hurried, hoping Mycroft would still be in the office.

"Do tell, what is this 'decoration' you have?" Sherlock asked, voice calm and expression dead. Somehow, with John gone, all the happiness had gone with him, sucked out of the room. Ultimately, with dear Jim, that was best. It was dangerous to expose emotions with people like him.

"Aw, you didn't want your pet to see?" Jim crooned, taking the stack of glossy photos from Seb's hands. "But they're... so... very... telling," he said slowly, flipping a photo over with each word to display Sherly and Watson wrapped around one another, positions clearly 'compromising'.

John caught Mycroft talking to Matron Hudson. "Mycroft, sir, Sherlock needs you."

Mycroft made an excuse without missing a beat and turned to follow John. The teen hurried back towards the dorm.

Sherlock glanced down at the photos, feeling a band constrict around his heart. Never in his life had there been a more private moment, and yet, someone he did not want anywhere near it had witnessed it first-hand. Had taken photographic records of it. The feeling that he had been violated was a new and unwelcome one, and he turned his head back to fix Moriarty with his cool stare. “You have still failed to inform me what it is you want of me.”

Jim scoffed at the question and tossed the remaining stack of photos into the air, the glossy paper fluttering down like feathers. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, stepping forward and delighting each time an image of Watson’s face twisted under his foot. He paused in front of Sherly and placed a hand on his chest. “I want you.”

Seb kept his face perfectly neutral as he walked over and locked the door behind Sherlock, standing guard by it. Jim never even looked at him. It was fine. He knew what kind of man he was and what kind Jim was. He could see Sherlock weighing his options and rather hoped he’d just give Jim what he wanted. Be easier for everyone that way.

"Why hold on to Watson so tightly?" Jim asked, circling his prey, trailing his hand as he went. "I know people get attached to their pets, but you're more than welcome to share mine. He's so well trained already, aren't you, Tiger?"

“Yes, boss.” Tiger stood stiffly. He wondered just what Jim would ask of him this time. He kept his face as neutral as he could. To be honest, the idea of being with Jim and Sherlock was a tempting idea.

"Mmm, see?" Jim murmured as he started to unbutton the blazer, annoyed when Sherlock didn't move to help or to shove him away. "He's already blond-haired and blue-eyed. And a bit nicer to look at, don't you think? A real tiger, not a puppy tripping at your heels, begging for attention." Blazer undone, he moved his fingers to the smaller buttons of the tight button-up, momentarily allowing himself to be distracted by the vee of pale skin. "Leave the school with me, and I won't have your dog put down," he offered with a saccharine smile.

Sherlock carefully eyed the dark, dilated eyes angled up at him. The fingers against his skin were soft, softer than John's, and so much lighter in their approach that it was almost ticklish. He dropped his gaze down to them for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Moriarty's. The dark-haired teen smiled at him, sweet and inviting, and Sherlock nodded.

John pushed open the door. He frowned as he looked around. “Sherlock?” He opened the doors. And his heart dropped as he saw Sherlock’s trunk open and his things gone. He turned round and found Mycroft watching him.

Mycroft stood in the doorway. “Perhaps you should simply focus on your studies, John.”

“Do you know something?” John stepped towards him.

"There is nothing to know," Mycroft replied sadly. The anger on the face of his brother's one-time companion melted into sadness as the teen turned in a helpless circle, looking entirely lost. "I'm sorry, John. But 'friends' and anything more intimate have never been concepts my brother understood." He moved to walk out the door before it came to mind exactly why he'd been called here in the first place. And the more he thought on it, the odder it was that Sherlock, who claimed to hate him, would call him in on such a matter. "You are an exemplary student, John. Do not waste it, and I will ensure no one gets between you and the career of your choosing."

Hurt, numb, John simply nodded. He walked to his bed and sat, running his good hand through his hair. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice when Mycroft walked out and left him.

With nothing else to lose, John threw himself into his work. He ached, for Sherlock, but he had no way to try and track down the other teen. So he studied and worked and barely left his room. Soon enough graduation day was here. He’d already been accepted into his first choice school. Still, adjusting his clothes in the mirror, the day rang hollow. What should have been his moment of triumph against all of those that had sworn he would fail meant nearly nothing without the person he loved.

The auditorium was full when Sherlock snuck in the back, kitted in the disguise of an elderly man. He had already been by their old room, and his heart had warmed at the signs of John not having taken another roommate after he'd left. He'd spent a bit too long laying on his boyfriend's sheets, breathing in the much-missed scent. He'd stayed as long as he dared before leaving his gift and his note on the pillow and hurrying to the auditorium. When Mycroft slid into the seat next to him somewhere around the 'M's, he did what he did best and ignored him.

"You may notice that absence of one 'Clay Moulton'," Mycroft mumurmed. At his side, Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs, the only indication it seemed his brother would give that he had acknowledged Mycroft's statement. Once said though, there wasn't any need to say that a fair number of other students that should have been graduating today where nowhere to be found on the stage.

John received his diploma with barely a glance at the auditorium. After all he had no friends and no family who cared. He headed back to his room to change and barely glanced at the bed until he noticed the letter and a small box.

He read the letter first. Sherlock. He was stunned. Opening the box he found a lovely enclaves watch. Doctor Watson. Not yet, but if all this was true... He gathered his things and went to catch the next train to London.

The flat was just as ready for its new occupant as it had been months ago, but now that John was to be arriving any minute, it seemed a bit of a scramble now. He couldn't stop touching things, moving them, perfecting their locations and angles. He only stopped when he realised he'd moved his and John's chairs eight times and they had still ended up in the same location. Not long later, there was a knock on the front door and he had to restrain himself from flying down the stairs to see his much-missed boyfriend.

John bounced on his heels. When the door opened, for a moment he wasn't sure if he should punch him or kiss him. Kissing won and he flung his arms around Sherlock's neck, simply glad to see him.

The other teen was warm and solid against him, and Sherlock wobbled with the strength of the embrace before he collapsed backwards. They toppled together to the hardwood and John's weight nearly crushed him, but it was more than welcome. As was the sensation of two hands sliding into his hair, rather than one.

John gulped down his kisses, biting his lip before finally pulling back. “What happened?”

"The fight that broke your arm was an intentional provocation paid for by Moriarty," Sherlock told him, running a hand down said arm to John's hand, stroking his boyfriend's wrist with his thumb. "If I did not leave with him, he was going to do it to you again, but the damage would have been more lasting. It would have ruined your opportunity to be a doctor. So I left with him, and then I disappeared. I worked with Mycroft to have those under his pay expelled so that you would be able to complete your schooling without that threat."

“And you couldn’t contact me? Not once?”

Sherlock averted his eyes and dropped his hands to the floor. "I wanted to make the school safe for you before I returned. I... never anticipated it taking this long."

John cupped his face and kissed him again. “You were trying to protect me.” He found he was okay with that, really. Not many people had ever tried to protect him before.

"I didn't just try," Sherlock scoffed, even as he returned the kiss. "I did. You came back to me in one piece."

“And I still love you.” John meant it with all his heart. Whatever might come, at least they had each other.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please don't forget to Comment, and always feel free to come visit [Mer](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) and [Kat](http://themadkatter13-fanfiction.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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